Season Two
by chezchuckles
Summary: An episode-by-episode response to season two of Castle. Follows Season One but it is not necessary to have read it.
1. Deep in Death

**A/N: A selection of one-shots based on the full episode re-watch of Season Two of Castle. Each chapter seeks to answer questions that arise during a viewing of the episode, which means they can be AU, set in the future, set in the past - anything is fair game.**

* * *

 **Deep in Death**

 **x2x01x**

Esposito haunts her desk.

She's not sure why, only that he keeps cropping up in her peripheral vision. Walking by with a file, handing off a key to one of the officers, accepting a coffee from Ryan. Just nondescript enough to be descript.

Descript isn't a word.

Whatever. She does _not_ need another running commentary in Castle's voice inside her own head.

"Espo," she says quickly, lifting her eyes and catching him hovering just there, almost anxious. "You need to get something off your chest?" A raised eyebrow for emphasis since she's not standing and can't use her height against him.

He gives an elaborate shrug that turns into a head shake. "Naw. Nothing at all. We're good."

"Are we."

That shutter comes down over his eyes that Beckett has seen before - in the box, interrogating a suspect who's hiding from her. She doesn't like seeing that look on his face.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, jerks his chin towards the elevator. "He coming back?"

"If by 'he' you mean Officer Sandusky-"

"You know who I mean." Defensive. Agitated.

She didn't see this coming with him, though Esposito even kind of like the writer monkey. "You have nothing to worry about, Esposito. You and Ryan are still first in my heart." Giving him a cocky grin, tapping her chest with two fingers so he gets it.

He does, and he growls and rolls his eyes. "That's not - he does _not_ make me feel threatened, Beckett. I just meant - you - you know - you forgave him for that?"

"He apologized," she says succinctly. She has nothing else. She doesn't know why the apology worked. (She thinks, in her darkest heart, that she's just messed up enough to want the possibility to always be available, dangling in front of her, to see if she can resist temptation, if she's strong enough now, if she can take it.)

"Well, alright then," Esposito says, shrugging elaborately. "I guess we don't gotta give him the cold shoulder no more?"

His dialectal grammar is always more pronounced when he feels emotional. She doesn't know why it should affect him so much, that she forgave Castle and is allowing him back in the precinct to follow her around again.

But she shrugs it off and goes back to her paperwork, offering only this. "You can give him the cold shoulder for a few more weeks. Won't hurt him to think he's got to earn it."

"Yes, _ma'am_."

 **x2x01x**

"Hello?" Richard Castle answers his phone uncertainly. It's the Twelfth Precinct's main switchboard, so it could be anyone, including dispatch calling him with the latest murder. But he doesn't think that's it.

"Castle."

"Detective Esposito?" he squeaks, clears his throat to modulate his voice. "How can I help you?"

 _Is Beckett okay?_

"Did you tell her?"

"She wouldn't let me," he says, immediately. "She wouldn't even look at the evidence my guy-"

"Not that," Esposito hisses over the line. "Did you tell her I was the one who gave you her mother's file?"

Castle sinks back into his desk chair. A clever retort is on the tip of his tongue, a chance to hold it over Espo's head, get him back for numerous slights.

But he doesn't.

Instead, it occurs to him that this is not just their professional careers he keeps putting his fingers all over but that this is Beckett's mother they're talking about.

Her mother, who died alone, bleeding in an alley, aware of every blow but paralyzed to defend herself. Dying for what? It wasn't random, it wasn't gang violence. It was her mother.

And he doesn't say any of those clever things that come so easily to his lips.

"No," he answers the detective instead. "I didn't tell her. I won't. Ever."

On the other end, Esposito lets out a grunt. "We're gonna have to razz you for a while, man. All part of the process. You get it."

"I get it," he says, but the detective has hung up.

He gets it. They're a family, the Twelfth is, and while Rick likes to think he brings them all some humor and enjoyment to the morbidity of their days, he won't forget that their lives are on the line.

He's sober now.

No more playing around.

 **x2x01x**


	2. The Double Down

**The Double Down**

 **xx2x02xx**

Rick Castle is on the phone with the publisher promising his first born child (or next first born, shhh, they don't have to know) when he gets the call from the Twelfth Precinct's switchboard. He finally convinces the lawyers that he's not handing out Advanced Reader Copies to all and sundry, and then listens to his messages, surprised when it's a couple seconds of dead air and then a hang-up.

Which means it was Beckett calling him and not the on-duty dispatch operator with a murder. And if Beckett didn't leave a message with the details of a body, then she was calling _just to call._

Okay, color him intrigued. He has a thousand things to do before the book is released, but he stands up and finds his jacket and wallet, heads for the door.

He jogs to his elevator and impatiently thumbs the call button, gets on while debating calling her back. If _he_ calls, _she_ might call him off. And he does not want that. He wants to know what made her call him in the first place, but he's afraid she'll close down if he probes too closely.

It beats fielding calls from the lawyers all night long. Jeez. You would think he had stolen priceless art from the Met the way BlackPawn is going on about it. So what if the reporter from Cosmo wasn't exactly on the critics' list to get first eyes on the book? It was free publicity, and Richard Castle never turns down free publicity.

Plus, he used it to get himself back in the Twelfth Precinct and she said _see you tomorrow_ and he's back, so it was worth the hassle from Black Pawn.

He'll just drop by and see what's going on with Detective Beckett.

 **xx2x02xx**

When the elevator doors open on the Homicide floor, he's momentarily stunned.

It's a madhouse.

It's _insane_.

He has never seen the Homicide bullpen like this. It resembles the Zoo lock-up downstairs, but with a scary lack of prison bars keeping the animals inside. Karpowski is wrestling a long-toothed woman in only a pink bra (the woman, not Karpowski, but wouldn't that be something?), LT is body blocking a huge guy with tattoos on his neck, Stegner is wrestling a guy to the floor who is at least twice her size, Esposito is yelling in Spanish at three different people, and Ryan is nowhere to be found.

"Holy shit."

" _Castle_."

He peers through the bodies jostling and struggling, the officers attempting to corral what can only have been a kegger gone horribly wrong (fatally if they're all up here on Homicide's floor), and he finally makes out the serene queen of all she surveys, Kate Beckett, rising from her desk.

Utterly at peace, composed when all others are ruffled, her eyes narrow at his appearance.

Castle makes a step towards her only to be brought up short - brutally - by a swinging punch that barely misses his head. He darts back, hitting the elevator's now-closed doors, and his jacket slips from his arm. He hurriedly catches it, sidesteps another tussle in the hallway, and then tries to avoid another punch being thrown.

A hand grips his arm and steers him, and he glances bewildered towards the guiding force. "Beckett," he squeaks.

"Step fast," she says, tugging him along. (He can't help admiring the confidence, the authority she projects, and part of his admiration is the svelte line of her body and just how much more of it she's been letting him see. Him? The whole world, in those cropped leather jackets and tailored pants and the shirts that hug her frame.)

By the time they make it to her desk in the middle of this three-ring circus, his hair is mussed and his jacket askew, but he's unharmed. Beckett, of course, looks pristine, deeply at peace in a way no one has the right to be in the middle of all this.

He sinks down to his customary chair by her desk and he stares, wide-eyed, for a long time.

Maybe too long.

She snaps her fingers in front of his face and he jerks his head back to her.

A slim raised Beckett eyebrow. "Castle. Did you come all the way to watch or did you have a reason for sticking your neck out on a full moon?"

" _You."_

She blinks.

He leers wildly at her to erase the seriousness of his unintentional honesty. "I had a missed call from the main line. 555-1300? I figured it was you, inviting me over to your place."

She narrows her eyes again.

"Your place being the Twelfth, of course. So predictable. You could really use some time off, Beckett."

"I manage just fine," she says tightly.

He's laying it on thick now, just to see what will happen. Like poking a bear. Like chasing the prettiest girl on the playground. "I'm touched, really. Our first date is a show. Mother would be proud, though I doubt this is what she had in mind."

Beckett shakes her head, that adorable look of bristling confusion - as if she knows she ought to be horrified but doesn't know why. "What? Castle. This is _not a date._ "

"You have popcorn in this joint? We need _popcorn_."

She narrows her eyes in askance, still defensive about the date thing. "Why?"

"For the show," he grins, rubbing his hands together with relish. "Since you've dragged me out here with nefarious intentions, you ought to feed me."

"Castle," she growls. But as she shakes her head, he thinks he hears her mutter _break room._

He jumps up from his chair in played-up excitement, but he bends low over her just to watch the flush rise in her neck. Very pretty. "Detective? Cover me. I'm heading for the break room."

He strikes out before she can haul him back, so very grateful she called and didn't leave a message.

She wanted his company.

 **xx2x02xx**


	3. Inventing the Girl

**Inventing the Girl**

 **x2x03x**

Detective Beckett takes the corner wide, wiping sweat from her brow as she strides through the bullpen post-sparring session. She scrapes the back of her hand against her lips, tasting the salt of two hours' work, but she comes to a halt in the middle of the near-empty Homicide.

"Stegner," she croaks out.

The woman turns from the break room, coffee in one hand and files under her arm. "Detective Beckett?"

"What's on my desk?"

Stegner glances over her shoulder. "Oh, it was here when I got here this morning."

Beckett regards her desk warily. She had intended to shower in the locker room, change clothes, but she lost track of time downstairs and she's cutting it close. She does not have time for the white box with its red bow on her desktop.

"We've all been taking bets on what it might be. Secret admirer?" Stegner sips at her coffee, grinning, but she must catch the stink eye Beckett is throwing, because she desists and instead scurries off.

Beckett cautiously approaches her desk, breathing hard not from the jog up all eight flights of stairs, but the box and its big floppy red bow.

She knows who it's from. She doesn't have to be a detective to figure it out.

And for a moment, the idea that she won't open it, that she'll just leave it there, is entirely too tantalizing.

But she's not one for fear. She doesn't bury her head in the sand. Retreat isn't in her vocabulary. All those good cliche phrases that ought to stiffen her spine but instead make her hands damp with sweat.

Kate Beckett takes the last step and reaches out, gripping the bow to tug it open. It falls with liquid ease, which means it's expensive, and the red silk puddles on the desktop in beautiful loops. It's like a picture in a magazine, except the gift is sitting on her bullpen desk with its banged-up corners and its grimy lighting.

She swallows and takes another step closer, her hips bumping the back of her chair, and then she just bites the bullet and does it. Opens the box.

Oh.

 _Oh._

Her book.

Beckett shakes her head at herself. _His_ book. Not hers. Well, the copy he got for her, so in that way, yes, hers, but she won't _claim_ Nikki Heat as being-

Oh, God. _Just pick it up already._

Beckett reaches into the tissue paper and pulls out the book, an oversized trade, impressed because it's a paperback Advanced Reader's Copy and not the final product. She didn't realize the hardback hasn't been finished. Or maybe it's just that the author himself doesn't have access to it?

He had to work to get this for her. He _said_ that, but she didn't believe it.

She does now.

Kate thumbs through the novel, the sharp scent of cheap ink and thin glue, the kind printed quickly, but it's all part of that new book smell that she loves. Inhales, her nose nearly in the binding.

 _Her_ book. Nikki Heat. She doesn't love the naked profile, but seeing it like this, it's growing on her. Just as the name grew on her. Just as Rick Castle himself has grown on her.

Beckett clutches the book to her chest, and gets rid of the box, tucking it into the recycling bin near the printer. When she comes back to her desk, the bow is sitting in pretty pools of ribbon on her blotter and she can't bring herself to throw it away.

It's early yet (though he's been here, placing the gift) and she doesn't know how much time she has before he gets back or comes in again, whichever it is. She grabs for the ribbon and stuffs it between the pages, shoves the book into her bag in her bottom drawer.

Her heart is pounding. Why is her mouth dry and her palms sweating?

She resolves to say _nothing_.

Nothing.

Reading his book already feels entirely too illicit.

 **x2x03x**


	4. Fool Me Once

**Fool Me Once**

 **x2x04x**

 _Beckett isn't what you call a sharer_

 **x2x04x**

With that warning like an echo in his head, Castle strides to her desk. After he caught her in the bathroom secretly reading his book, he rested on his laurels, pleased with the progress he's made so far.

But no longer. He won't be content with 'secret fan' of his books, especially not when - as his daughter so helpfully pointed out this morning - the whole book is about Kate anyway, so of _course_ she wants to read it. Away from him.

It's only logical.

He doesn't like that logic. He wants her to be a huge fan. He wants to see those dazed stars in her eyes, to feel a little dazzled by him. (Never gonna happen, Castle.)

So he's out to prove his point, even if it's only to himself, that there's more here, more to this. He doesn't know why; he really isn't looking for a conquest (is he?).

He wants a friend. He wants to prove she's his friend.

How pathetic is that?

Doesn't matter, she's rigid in her desk chair as he approaches, and he gives a little flourish to his arrival, dropping into his customary seat beside her. "Good evening, Detective."

"Why are you here?" she says tightly. Closes her eyes, shakes her head - that's his only apology. Her eyes open and a new serenity has fallen over her. "There hasn't been a body drop."

A 'body drop'? That's a new term. He hastily reaches into his inside pocket and withdraws his notebook, the little pen, writes it down before he can forget it. "That's good. Body drop. And so far, there have been some literal drops of bodies."

"Castle," she complains.

"Right, I am here because of your woeful con."

"My con?" she says, arching an eyebrow and pressing her lips into a smug smile. "You mean the one where I convinced you I didn't like con movies?"

"It was a little pathetic, you have to admit."

She crosses her arms.

"It's not a con if you just _lie_ , Beckett."

"Who says."

"I say. And to prove it, we're watching con movies - all night - until you grasp the finer points of a con."

"No. _We_ are not."

Of course not; he knew that going into this. "Then, as a consolation prize, you have to tell me one true thing about you. Something I don't know. To make up for your lie. Since you won't watch a movie with me."

She glares at him, opens her mouth to retort, closes it again with a huff. He's got her; she won't shut him down just to keep up appearances. They're _friends_. She'll give way to what she thinks is a smaller concession just to keep from a much larger one.

"Fine," she growls. "You know why I like con movies so much? Because my mother had a crush on Robert Redford, and we would watch all of his movies together. But _Sneakers_ is my favorite, not _The Sting_. I used to know every word by heart."

He isn't expecting that. Honestly, he isn't sure he expected her to really answer him truthfully. He expected banter, some back and forth, to have to work for it a little. And now he doesn't know what to do. Her mom had a crush on Robert Redford. She's seen all his movies, loves _Sneakers_ \- the plot of which he doesn't even remember.

He stands up.

She startles. "You leaving?"

"Yes. I have a date."

Her jaw sets. "Of course."

"With _Sneakers_ ," he finishes, lips smirking at the look on her face. "Haven't seen that movie before. Now I have an excellent reason to watch."

"But - why?" she says, her whole body portraying such bewilderment, that he begins to wonder if _no one_ has ever gone out of their way for her.

"Call me highly motivated," he tells her. "Until tomorrow, Detective."

 **x2x04x**


	5. When the Bough Breaks

**When the Bough Breaks**

 **x2x05x**

 _There. All fixed._

Rick Castle eases out of the Talbot's apartment, following Beckett as she heads for the elevator. What they've managed to do here cheered him for a brief moment in the Talbot's living room, watching a father adore his son in such grateful awe. Watching a mother open her heart to a child she never knew.

But the moment he sees Beckett's face as she jabs for the call button, that cheer drains right out of him, and he deflates.

He steps onto the elevator with her, leans back against the far wall. She punches the button for the lobby and the doors close.

But she doesn't deflate; she remains the same. Stoic.

"It's not that easy, is it?" he says quietly, setting his jaw. "It's not 'all fixed' now. It won't ever be."

"No," she answers. Succinct. But in her brevity is a wealth of personal grief. "It's not."

"It's never that simple," he sighs. "When Alexis was little, I did the same thing. Fixed her broken toys - mostly by buying a new one, when I could get away with it. I had to learn to do minor repairs on Monkey Bunky, stitches to keep his arms on, his tail, keep him from being decapitated by the fierceness of her love. But-"

Beckett shoots him a sidelong look. He risks glancing back, and he sees her lips twitch at the images he's painted. That helps actually. That _does_ go a long way to fixing things.

Knowing he can make her smile, or at least make her want to smile, despite all she's seen. All she grieves.

"What Dr Talbot did was the same," Castle says then, surprised at the compassion he feels for the man in that moment. "Trying to fix it."

"Cameron Talbot," Beckett says clearly, giving him a strong look, "stole a baby from his rightful parents because he was too weak and spineless to face his wife's potential grief. He gave away his own _son_. And then he murdered Zane's biological mother to keep it all nice and tidy - for _him._ "

Castle shrugs his shoulders under the weight of that, the burden of her black and white world. "But he was trying to fix it. I don't think he's as heartless as all that, but maybe I'm being naive."

"Yeah, well... you are." She crosses her arms over her chest, her jaw working. She won't look at him. There's a long silence, and something in her posture shifts. The elevator doors open.

"And your naiveté must be catching." She jerks forward, striding out of the lift without looking back. He follows, as he always follows, half bewildered by the complexity that is Kate Beckett.

The other half is pure lust.

Which he does try to tame, every now and again.

"No, it's not fixed," he says, catching up to her. "Gaping holes have been blown open in all of their lives. But I've been around you long enough to know you're very good at first aid. You did a good thing today."

 **x2x05x**


	6. Vampire Weekend

**Vampire Weekend** (Season 8 series finale spoilers)

 **x2x06x**

"You used to throw a lot of parties, Castle."

He glances back at her. His wife is hip deep in clear plastic storage containers, boxing up their life. She looks good, better than he expected after three hours of cleaning out closets and grieving a little for the terror that still remains here.

"Castle?"

"Was that a question?" he chuckles. He avoids looking towards the kitchen, pulls his eyes back to the hall closet where he's trying to sort things into the correct bins.

He doesn't know when they'll come back to the loft, if ever. He doesn't want to be here; his nightmares are bad enough to be constantly paranoid that a door creaking or the wind outside is actually someone inside.

Nightmares brought to life.

But moving out was her idea, so he knows it's not just him.

"Not really a question, just an observation," she says. He glances over his shoulder once more, finds her fingering a Halloween decoration, the black raven from his Edgar Allan Poe costume. "Remember this one?"

"How could I forget?" he grins. " _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary-_ "

"Opening lines?" she smirks.

He shrugs again, returns to the open closet. She's been listless for the last hour or so, and he knows the wounds irritate her, scar tissue pulling in odd places, keeps her a little short of breath.

They're alive, but the road to recovery is long.

"Those first few years, Castle, you gave a _lot_ of parties. I think I got an invitation to some shindig or other of yours every month."

"Yup," he gives, folding a jacket and laying it carefully in the bin filled with their clothes. She said don't worry about sorting, they'll do that when they get where they're going. He doesn't think she knows any better than he does where they're going, or when they might get there. Tour of the country first, maybe a tour of the world later.

"Well, why'd you stop?"

He pauses, hands braced on the storage bin because leaning over still makes him feel slightly dizzy, but he pushes off, turns to face her.

The sunlight streaming in through the windows catches the copper-bottomed pots hanging on their rack and throws a strange sharp halo around her head.

He swallows and spreads his hands out in a placating gesture. "I didn't need to."

"Your partying days were done?" she smirks.

He's too tired to feel cute, or clever, and so he just tells her the honest truth. "I was searching for something, back then, that I thought parties and soirees and doing it up big were going to get me. It was feeding a bottomless pit, and it never was enough. Until I met you. You'll remember I stopped throwing countless parties when we got together."

She tilts her head, studying him, something like a smile lurking in her lips. "That thing for my mother. That was, I think, the first big party in years I remember you hosting. We've had smaller affairs, you and I, since then."

"They were only my attempts to find what I was missing. And I found it."

 _in you_.

She beams at him, traverses the mine field that is their living room to come to him, draws her arms low around his waist. The press of their bodies is light, careful, and they both offer a faint breath of relief when it doesn't hurt so much.

"You're very sweet," she murmurs, lips ghosting his temple. "But what do you say, Castle? Halloween party. _Here_. The moment we finally return."

"You think we really will?"

"I want to," she says simply. "Don't you?"

"I want to want to," he promises.

He had hoped to raise their family here.

For some reason, it doesn't seem so far out of reach any more.

 **x2x06x**


	7. Famous Last Words

**Famous Last Words**

 **x2x07x**

The car is dark, silent.

She keeps both hands on the wheel to prevent herself from reaching out and taking one of his, squeezing. She's never seen him quite like this, worried and papa-bear, all for a girl who can't stop using.

Sky is out there somewhere, wandering the streets alone in grief over her sister, and Rick Castle can't sleep tonight if he doesn't do something to look for her.

And Kate _knew_. She knew he would. She offered before he could say anything, and that _scares_ her.

She's scared. The Rick Castle she's come to know is not the man who asked her for crime scene photos with that giddy breathlessness.

Maybe _she_ had no idea. She's clutching the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are blanched and sweaty from the heater.

She's not really thinking about it, is she? No. No, she _can't_ seriously be thinking about what it's like with Rick Castle. Like _forever_ with Richard freaking Castle. He doesn't do forever. He's on his second divorce.

"This is a needle in a haystack," Castle rumbles from the passenger seat. She startles at the way his voice wraps around them in the darkness, the way her own body reacts.

She will _not_ reach out and take his hand.

"Hey, what about the guy who sold Hayley the gun?" Castle shifts in his seat, turning his body to her in eagerness.

"Mm, what about him?"

"He had a home address, right? Maybe Sky went back to him to score?"

Beckett nods slowly, glances to the center console. "Grab my phone? Text Ryan for the address. I don't have my case notes on me."

"No need. I do. Keep it all on my phone."

She shoots him a startled look, watches him dig into his pocket.

She is _not_ turned on by the fact that he has case notes on his phone. She's not. She's something far far more dangerous than turned on.

"Alright, here it is." He flashes his phone towards her and she's relieved to find herself back on familiar ground, focusing on the case, an address which requires all her mental faculties to plan a route from their current location. "Hey, look, I can map it on my phone."

She scowls. "Is that the iPhone?"

"Yep. Pretty cool, isn't it, Beckett? Bet you're so jealous."

"Hardly." Maybe a little. The good thing is - whatever that was, whatever strange and heavy thing settled in her guts and twisted her lungs until she found it difficult to breathe - that's gone now. Disappeared in the puff of his arrogance.

"After that," she says slowly, turning on her blinker, "we can swing by Hayley Blue's former band mates, scare 'em a little. They might know where she's gone."

"Oh, good idea," Castle praises, and the deep rich tone of his voice once more plunges her right back into it.

As if he's proud of her.

As if she _cares_.

She really can't do this.

But there's no way to stop it.

 **x2x07x**


	8. Kill the Messenger

**Kill the Messenger (spoilers for Season 8 finale)**

 **xx2x08xx**

Castle isn't writing.

What he's doing is channel surfing surreptitiously with the sound off on the television, scanning through the satellite guide for something more interesting than staring at his laptop screen.

When he sees _Quicksilver, 1986, Kevin Bacon_ , Castle sits up in expectation, his feet falling to the floor.

"Beckett!" he booms through their tiny rental house, already standing. He sets his laptop back on his desk and selects the random 80s movie network, grinning as the movie pops up only fifteen minutes into it. He can rewind it to the beginning, so he does, just as Kate walks through the doorway.

"You bellowed?"

He grins widely, reaches out to snag his pregnant wife, despite the glare she's giving him. "Come here, this is awesome."

"Aren't you supposed to be writing."

"You're supposed to be taking it easy," he rejoins. "I can write, you can sit and watch."

She sighs. "What am I watching?"

" _Quicksilver_ ," he crows. "Remember?"

She spreads a hand over the bump, shrugs. "No."

Castle huffs, maneuvers her around, nudging her to the other end of the couch. "Come on, seriously. Kevin Bacon as a bike messenger."

"Oh, God," she groans.

He freezes. "What? What's wrong? The baby-"

"No. _You_. Castle. That stupid 80s movie about the bike messenger? No way. You did not call me in here - and from the bed where I _was_ taking it easy - in order to watch a _lame_ -"

"Shh," he soothes, a little patronizing but mostly comedic. "No, no, hush, not that bad, I swear. Promise. It's a good movie once you let yourself get sucked into the 80's glam."

 **xx2x08xx**

She falls asleep against him.

Castle winds his arm around her neck and cradles her head, softly kisses her temple. She has a knee drawn up, her mouth open, entirely slack. The movie has lost his attention, of course, but this is better than a movie, better even than working on his Nikki Heat novel that just won't come. (Or at least not the way it used to; this time Nikki Heat wants to rent a house with Rook and settle into healing from wounds that just won't scar over the way they're supposed to.)

Better than a movie, even if it is Kevin Bacon 80's glam.

Rick presses his palm to her stomach, to the round life that throws off her balance and makes her grumpy in the afternoon and exhausted in the evening. And beautifully filled in, all those gaunt places erased, all the narrow bones of trauma disappearing beneath the flush of life.

If he turns off the television, she'll wake to the lack of noise, so he leaves it on. He leaves it on and he shifts until she's resting against him, until her head is in the cradle of his neck and shoulder, until he takes her weight, and the baby's there between them.

It's not what he imagined when he thought of this. It's not the loft, or some house they bought together in the city. It's not popping up to the Twelfth Precinct to make sure she's not overdoing it but secretly wishing for a good freaky case to get sucked into with her.

It's not a fairy tale.

No. It's not what he thought his life would look like, but it's more.

That Quicksilver day seven years ago when he came upon her crime scene, the dead bike messenger, and told her she had to see this movie, he might have wished for some future date, a way to charm and seduce her, but this is so much _more_ than his albeit overactive imagination could have envisioned.

Oh, envision it, he did. He wrote Rook and Nikki sex scenes, envisioning it. He followed her with his eyes. He sat too close and painted her pictures with his words and generally annoyed her. He became her shadow, and then her sidekick, and finally her partner.

That case with the bike messenger, he remembers someone asking them then _are you together_ and her answer was _absolutely not._

But his answer was _not yet_.

Erase the _not_ and this is their yet, their absolutely. It's taken work and effort and trauma to get here, but there have been such seasons of joy and beauty, and through it all, love.

Rick removes his hand from her stomach and instead strokes back through her hair. He presses his lips to her forehead.

She murmurs and shifts, eyes half-opening, and bats at his hand with that exhausted grumble. "Stop petting me. Not your dog."

He grins into the top of her head, but he stops. He stops. "Not a bitch at all," he whispers.

She cracks open an eye, glares at him, and then turns in his arms to put her back to him, her face against his bicep, the bump to the couch.

He hopes their kid has her ferocity - and all their love.

 **xx2x08xx**


	9. Love Me Dead

**Love Me Dead**

 **x2x09x**

Around the conference table, digging into lunch - chopsticks and cold case files, Castle scowls at her.

"It's after one in the afternoon," he says.

Beckett lifts her head, blinks to focus on him. He can see her coming back to the here and now, her attention dragged away from a colorful glossy photo of a dead man in a trash dumpster. "What?"

"It's after _one_."

"I... yes?"

He scowls. "So what happened to _I told you so_ and _that starts tomorrow._ "

Another blink of her eyes, but this time it's not orientation, it's hiding. Covering up some deep wound that he never expected to find in the middle of the conference room with Esposito and Karpowski as noisy eaters on either side of them.

"Beckett?"

She waves him off with a chopstick and he knows enough by now to wait. Not press her for more in front of other people.

Scarlet Price and her ring of escorts, the murdered lawyer, the way he was played - all of that needs a good thrashing out, a couple of jokes, maybe a prank or two just to keep it from settling so heavy, meaning too much. Usually Beckett is leading the charge, teasing him mercilessly, but not today.

And he doesn't know why.

 **x2x09x**

He's making espresso in the break room when she sneaks up on him. Or as she calls it, 'comes to find him.'

She takes the cup from his hand and sips, a smile hidden behind the porcelain as he tries to gather his composure. He might have yelped and spilled hot coffee on his hand. He might also be sucking at the web between his thumb and finger, cooling it off as he pretends to be put out with her.

Really, he's waiting for what comes next.

She starts speaking, not looking at him, studying the chrome of the espresso machine. "My mother used to say that. _I told you so._ It got to be a family joke. Her old favorite."

He nods, shows her he's listening, but he doesn't dare speak for fear of breaking the spell.

She rubs her thumb along the rim of the coffee cup. "I don't say _I told you so._ To anyone. That's hers. Ours alone."

He leans a hip against the counter because he knows there's more, there has to be more. Her mother's pet saying, the memories attached. He gets it. But she never had to mention it if she didn't want to. She could have dropped it after lunch and never said a word. She's very good at side-stepping him.

There has to be more.

Her head lifts and Beckett's eyes encounter his with such ferocity that he's stunned, taken aback.

A little overwhelmed.

"Castle?"

He can't even find the words to address her.

She nods briskly, turns on her heel as if his silence is an answer. But she tosses, over her shoulder, the phrase he's been needing to hear all day just to make yesterday's mistakes, yesterday's failures not so harsh.

"Castle? I told you so."

Her lips press into something he might even call a smile, and she carries the coffee out to her desk and settles behind it.

He releases a long breath and marvels.

 _Ours alone._

 **x2x09x**


	10. One Man's Treasure

**One Man's Treasure**

 **x2x10x**

 _That sounded dirtier than I meant it._

 **x2x10x**

"Don't I know it," Castle smirks, leering eyebrow and all. "Some photos are worth the trouble." He regards her with that look that says they'd be pictures of _her_ and naked in his bed and he'd never lose them.

Beckett loses it. "Why do you always have to say something dirty?" she hisses. "You don't mean it. You're not gonna follow up on it. You only ruin it when you open your mouth. So stop."

Castle swallows, closes his mouth. Their eyes are hooked, neither able to look away, Beckett furious and half-ashamed for reasons she won't look at too closely, and Castle-

She has no idea what Castle thinks because _honestly_ she never gets to see the real Castle, does she?

Alexis skips back to them through the bullpen and completely shatters the moment, but the girl is oblivious. "Thank you for letting me do that. She was so grateful for those photos. She didn't even know they existed."

"That was a good thing you did," Beckett tells her. His daughter is just so earnest. Beckett isn't sure she's ever seen someone so determined to do right.

Except maybe herself. Was she that green and raw when she was in the Academy?

Castle hasn't said a word; Alexis keeps prattling on about the brag book she returned to its rightful owner. Beckett glances over at him, but his eyes are on his daughter, and seemingly all his attention.

But she sees the troubled line stamped in his forehead.

She sighs and presses her hands into her lap, wishes she hadn't said it. Let him be smarmy if he feels he has to play up that image. She _does_ see the real Castle. This is just - a facet. And it's one she knows isn't real, so she should be able to handle it with more dignity than she did.

"So, now what?" Alexis asks into that brewing storm. "I mean, is this all?"

Beckett straightens up. "You did a very good job, Alexis. The Sergeant over the Evidence Room says you've made a huge dent in his backlog. So thank you." Should there be more? Beckett doesn't know how to do this. She feels overly polite all the time, trying too hard _not_ to try, not to want Alexis to like her so badly.

"I'm so glad," Alexis rushes on, beaming, apples in her cheeks, eyes squinting up just like Castle's do when he's excited and happy. "Dad? I guess we should get out of Detective Beckett's hair. Maybe spaghetti on the way home?"

But Castle abruptly turns to Beckett, and all of that loose and liquid charm is gone. He regards her with a solemn look and extends his hand. "Would you like to have dinner?" he asks. "With us. A good way to close the case, wouldn't you say?"

She's a little baffled by his sudden change in mood, the sober expression he wears. All that smarmy amusement is gone, but with it goes the goofy childlike innocence too. She doesn't know what to say.

"Oh, Dad," Alexis sighs. "Don't _make_ her. Detective Beckett, you don't have to. I mean, I'd love to talk more, pick your brain, but you're busy and Dad is always in the way-"

"Not in the way," Beckett blurts out. She finds herself just as surprised as Castle looks, and she straightens up, elbows pressed in against her ribs, fighting of a strange wave of panic. "At least not all the time. Sometimes. Well..."

She cocks her head, trying to pass it off as a joke, one of their usual, but he doesn't take the bait. He's not laughing any more.

But he also doesn't call her out on it, as she did to him just a few minutes ago about his stupid sexual innuendo.

"So... we're on for spaghetti then?" he says finally, standing from the chair, still offering his hand to hers.

And she takes it, surprised even still, standing up from her desk. Alexis looks back and forth between them, still apple-cheeked and smiling, and Beckett is glad the girl is here. At least they have a chaperone.

She thinks they need one.

 **x2x10x**


	11. The Fifth Bullet

**The Fifth Bullet**

 **A/N:** This post-ep is AU. I wrote quite a lot about the Fifth Bullet's characters and viewpoints and what it meant for the Caskett relationship in a previous story (Learn to Have Been), and I wanted to go in a different direction.

 **x2x11x**

 _Kiss that girl while you're both still young._

 **x2x11x**

When the night has a firm grip on the city and his own body's rhythms are telling him it's time for bed, Rick Castle halts before his closet and stares into the distance.

It doesn't sit right with him, and he doesn't know why.

Jeremy has his second chance, his do-over, and Castle is left wondering...

If someone knocked all the sense out of his head, would he make these same choices? (Mistakes, the nastier side of him whispers, _mistakes_ , his ex-wives were mistakes.) Would he fall blindly in love all over again if he didn't know better?

There's something to be said for experiences forging a man's character. The things Castle has seen and done while riding along with the Homicide detectives of the Twelfth Precinct have changed him for the better. He would be back at square one if amnesia stole the last year or more from his life.

Back to playboy.

Which is silly, really, because he _is_ a playboy, the playboy with the golden heart, the golden touch, and if he lives his life as if his dreams come true, well that's only because they do. Come true. It's a charmed life, he's sure.

He's sure. (Boring, charmed life.)

Rick Castle slowly turns in his empty bedroom, the top button forgotten in his fingers, and he surveys his dream come true. (With forty staring at him.)

His hands drop to his sides. A moment passes across his face, and then he's turning and leaving the bedroom, taking quick strides down the hall to the coat closet. He pulls out scarf and coat, slides into them even as he scoops up his wallet and house keys. He's out the door before he can let himself think.

 **x2x11x**

He texts her from the cab and receives the answer _still here_ that both makes this easier and also so much harder. (Also, why is she still at the Twelfth? Does she never go home any more?)

He hops out of the cab and pushes through the double doors, plunging into the main floor lobby. He has to dig everything out of his pockets and dump them in the plastic tray and then hurry through the metal detector. Only, of course, he's told to go back through once more, he was going too fast, they don't like his looks this late at night or they really do know him and they're messing with him.

Usually he'd be playing along. Ribbing the guard, making sly comments.

He's not up for it tonight.

He scrapes his keys and phone out of the tray, shoves them back into pockets as he runs for the elevator. His anxiety is palpable; he feels it himself, the clammy tang to the air in his lungs, the way his foot taps in the elevator car, how his palms are damp.

On the homicide floor, it's ghostly and subdued, nothing at all like what he's used to, and that throws him for a moment. The anti-full moon. The calm before the storm. He steps out and the doors shut behind him, and she's not at her desk.

He swallows, wonders if this is a supremely stupid move. _Risky_.

All of life is a great series of risks. The point was driven home this week, trying to goad a man into remembering. Hardly anyone gets second chances, and especially not when you've been shot. Who survives that? Who ever survives _love_ for that matter?

He doesn't know what he's thinking; he doesn't know what he's doing here. He should-

"Castle?"

He turns his head and she's there, coming out of the break room, an empty mug in her hand. He blinks and he can see her lips twitching, as if she's amused by him.

"Since you're here. Give me a hand," she says, gesturing towards the break room. She disappears back inside and he follows mechanically, but his heart is thundering a rhythm he can almost make out. _This is it this is it._

He pulls the coffee by rote, knowing exactly how to finesse the espresso machine for her, and all the while, he takes a deep breath of her scent, cherries and coffee, work day and winter. The last few months she's grown steadily more quiet as the temperature has dropped, and he knows why; he gets it.

He actually understands.

She takes the coffee cup from him with a hidden smile (but he knows it's there, knows she's pleased, _feels_ it in his guts). Their fingers brush, but it's not any different from a hundred coffee hand-offs, it's not anything unusual.

What's out of the norm is the way his heart pounds and his breath skitters in his lungs and his blood beats a mad tattoo _this is it this is it._

He's going to kiss her.

Before there are no second chances, no Russian literature novels to stop a bullet, no amnesia to conveniently wipe the mistakes clean.

Kate sips her espresso and smiles up at him, and his hands lift to hold her there, perfectly there-

She tastes like dark secrets and rich winter woods; she's cool and alive and moving against him.

The coffee tilts and slides, burning heat between them, but Beckett's fingers grip the back of his head. Her mouth opens. His world shatters and reforms, all hazy images and bewildered awe.

She kisses him back.

The cup clatters to the floor.

 **x2x11x**


	12. Rose For Everafter

**Rose For Everafter**

 **x2x12x**

Their arms brush as they stand at the back of the hotel ballroom. Her fingers sometimes tangle with his, but neither of them are mentioning it. The music is too loud to talk anyway, but they're not dancing. She has to be at work in eight hours, so this won't be much of a night out. He keeps saying he'll be there the next morning with coffee.

Kyra looks pretty, she thinks. Castle watches the new bride, his eyes following the traditional first dance, but when Beckett glances at him, he's shifting his eyes to look back at her too. Easily distracted from Kyra's special day, Kyra's glowing beauty, from the one who got away. He's sharing in Kyra's joy, but he's sharing it with Beckett.

She put aside the bridal bouquet, wanted to leave it on one of the banquet tables for Kyra to save, for memories. But he pulled out one sprig of baby's breath, tucked it into the button hole of his suit jacket. It looks nice there, bright and elegant as he stands close beside her.

They don't dance but-

Their knuckles knock, her wrist bone to his cuff, her hip glancing his. Her throat is tight, but he seems unconcerned. Nonchalant even. She doesn't know what she's doing, or even if she's doing anything.

She just likes the brush of their fingers, the skin to skin warmth, and standing at his side. (Usually, he's standing at her side, in her world, but now she's the one invited into the spectacle of his. Tall ceilings and gilt, fancy parties and dressing up.)

A tray passes and Castle plucks a glass from the silver surface, sips. He pauses and glances at her, and then offers the champagne flute to her. She shouldn't. On duty in eight.

Beckett - Kate - pauses, regards the glass, the cheerful bubbles.

He lifts an eyebrow.

Kate takes the glass and puts it to her lips, the pop and fizz of champagne as she breathes. Castle is watching her, his eyes not leaving her mouth, and it feels more like a challenge than a seduction.

(Is that what they're doing?)

(Haven't they always been doing it?)

She takes a sip, barely wetting her tongue, swallowing just enough to make the back of her throat tingle. She lowers the flute, runs her tongue over her bottom lip.

His brow lowers. Equal parts intensity and provocation, as if accepting a dare she's not sure she meant to issue. He shifts, barely moving, but just enough to bring her whole side into his front, his torso brushing the length of her arm.

She offers the champagne back to him, lifting an eyebrow of her own, a mere inclination of her wrist they're so close together.

His eyes are on her mouth, but at that moment, one of the wedding guests raises a cheer, a group of them a little loose and happy, and her attention is involuntarily drawn to the crowd. A jostled note in the intimacy.

But Castle.

The glass being removed from her fingers brings with it a wave of sensation, and when it's over, she can barely trust it really happened: the closeness of his presence, warmth and electricity, and his fingertips brushing a tendril of hair off her neck.

She goes still, her body filling with the sense of his.

He finishes the champagne, putting his lips where hers were on the glass.

 **x2x12x**


	13. Sucker Punch

**Sucker Punch**

 **xx2x13xx**

"You brought this home with you?"

Beckett spins around to find Castle withdrawing the 3D model from her bag. "Castle," she hisses, striding forward to snatch it out of his hand. "Stop going through my stuff."

"You brought the Special Forces knife _home_ with you."

"Just the model," she croaks, something in her guts trembling, washing out.

"Kate."

She jerks her chin up and glares at him. He never calls her by her first name. "I had a lot of paperwork today, Castle, and I'm tired. You should-"

"I am _not_ leaving," he growls. His brow is lowered in that way she knows now, where he's going to be petulant and demanding and insistent, immovable, regardless of what she wants. "Not only because your mother's killer just _died_ on the precinct floor, because of _me_ , but because you brought home the _knife._ "

She swallows hard, battling back the sensation of drowning. She can't do this. There's no place or time for this, for his... for him being in her life like this, at her apartment. Why did she let him follow her home? "Castle... It's just the model."

"You're taking this back," he says. "You were the one who made Ryan put the DVDs back into evidence and he was just watching them at his desk. You know better."

She grits her teeth, grinding her teeth to keep from saying things she shouldn't. Things that she doesn't mean. She's worked years to get away from this, and now here it is, this opening gap, this expanse that she can almost see across to the other side of. Almost.

She was so close. She is _so close._

"Look," he says, sliding the 3D model into his back pocket of his jeans like he's hiding it from her. Out of sight, out of mind. Like she's two years old. "I know I started this, opened things up where I shouldn't, so I feel like it's my responsibility to... see you through."

Can he see it too? The yawning chasm that opens up inside her when she gets too close?

"I think you should let me take you to my-"

"No," she huffs, tossing him off and reaching for the knife. "Castle, I'm not going home with you." She snags the grip of the 3D model and the handle catches on his pocket, jerking her hard enough to fall into him.

He cups her elbows; her heart is thundering.

She manages to untangle the knife from his jeans, but she can barely wrest herself away from his light touch. He's not even holding onto her; he's not even trying.

She stumbles back, turns quickly in her living room, and she heads for the kitchen. It takes an act of will to drop the resin blade to the top of the stainless steel counter, affecting a carelessness she doesn't feel.

"Wine?" she says, heading for the bottle opener.

She can hear him sigh, the sound of changing gears and accepting her lead on this. She lets out a breath of her own, turns to hand him the corkscrew.

Castle takes it in his fingertips and his eyes search out her face.

She makes it bland, leaves nothing in her eyes, but it hurts something in her to do it, to shutter herself where, lately, she's let him see more than she ever thought she would.

"Where are your glasses," he says quietly, nodding towards the kitchen beyond her. As if prompting her to the correct social niceties. As if to say, _if we're really doing this._

She turns around and opens a cabinet, pulls down two wine goblets, offers them up to his libation. The extra food he brought to the precinct after Coonan is all in the brown bag on her counter, and she heads to unpack it, avoiding his eyes.

There's no way she'll let him 'take you back to my place', but she could use some company tonight. She's not stupid. She can _feel_ that pit opening up inside her again.

That black hole.

 **xx2x08xx**


	14. The Third Man

**The Third Man**

 **x2x14x**

"I don't care _how_ just get it _off me_."

Beckett presses her lips together, studying the man practically squealing in front of her. His head is tilted back sharply, glancing through his lashes at her in desperation, while something in the tarantula family waves four of its hairy legs back at him.

He has a spider on his shoulder. "It's just a little spider."

"Beckett," he gasps.

"I'm just enjoying the moment," she answers, her lips curling despite herself.

"You are so not funny," he hisses.

"Am a little bit."

" _Beckett."_

"Alright, alright, you big baby," she laughs, stepping in close to peer eye to eye with the spider. Eyes like a fly, she thinks she remembers, prisms so it sees everywhere at once. "He's fascinating-"

"Let it be fascinating behind glass, not on my chest."

"Shoulder," she amends, and he chokes on something that might be real fear.

He's not playing it up?

Beckett lifts her eyes and really lets herself look at him, and no. No, he's not being melodramatic to entertain; he's scared. And he doesn't want to be scared so he's making jokes and letting himself get a little hysterical so that no one knows he's really not okay with this.

"Alright," she says quietly. "You still have my clutch?"

"Here, right here," he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. But one of his hands lifts and bumps into her while his other hand grabs for her hip and hangs on tight.

Noted. Rick Castle does _not_ like big hairy spiders.

"It's not poisonous," she offers. She really has no idea.

"Beckett," he gurgles.

"Okay, I got it." She lifts her clutch in one hand and touches the end of it to his lapel, just below the spider. He shivers, as if repressing a much more violent reaction. "Just me. I'm going to herd him onto my purse. And off you."

"Please," he gets out, his voice more growl than word. His chin, tilted back so far that his chest is thrust out towards her, dips a little, one eyelid peeling back.

"Keep your eyes closed," she says hurriedly. "Just - close your eyes, Castle."

"Yeah, okay," he says, almost panting for breath. She thinks it's for show, that the over-the-top stuff is to hide how much it really does make him uncomfortable, but she won't take any chances. If he _faints_ , she won't be able to catch him.

Beckett cups her free hand and raises it towards his shoulder, begins inching down towards the spider. The thing waves two legs, but it moves sideways rather than down.

She sucks in a breath, angles her arm to hem in the spider, and it skitters away from her and towards his sternum. "Whoops."

"Oh, God, don't," he gasps.

"No, no, it's fine. It's fine," she soothes, but laughter is bubbling in her voice; she can't help it.

"Don't you dare laugh-"

"I'm sorry. No. Not laughing." Beckett sets her face, concentrates, curling her arm and cupped hand down towards the bridge made of her clutch.

Oh, but-

The spider decides to move forward instead, prancing almost like a miniature, eight-legged horse, and it climbs over Castle's lapel and onto her arm.

"Uh-oh," she breathes.

"What?" he croaks out. Cracks open an eye and begins to tilt his head down.

"No, don't," she rushes out. Eight furry legs investigate the soft down of her arm. "Don't look. Castle. Trust me."

"I trust you," he says immediately. Just that fast, no hesitation, his eyes slamming shut.

He trusts her.

She slowly withdraws her arm from his proximity, keeping her clutch near the spider in case it would like a better ride, but it stays motionless, perched on the sensitive skin just inside her wrist and clinging to the slope of her bone.

Oh, boy.

Beckett takes a step back from Castle. Stares at the spider on her arm.

"Oh my _God_."

She jerks her eyes up to him and Castle is gaping at her, his face a strange, stiff parchment.

"Beckett," he gasps.

"Hush," she murmurs. "Don't spook him." She lifts her arm slowly to put her eyes even with the spider. A leg lifts, the fine hairs waving. The mouth is - wow - she gulps and watches the pincers open and close again. "This thing is amazing."

"Stay right there, Beckett. I'm going to get help. Don't _move_."

"Castle," she calls out, but he's already darting out of the back room of the pet shop and hollering for Esposito to bring back their suspect.

But it's okay.

It's not that bad.

These things don't bite, do they?

 **x2x14x**


	15. The Suicide Squeeze

**The Suicide Squeeze**

 **x2x15x**

 _BECKETT_  
 _Oh, I don't know, Castle. Me in a swimsuit under the hot, blistering sun..._

 _CASTLE_  
 _I'd be happy to rub lotion on you._

 **x2x15x**

Their fingers tangle as she sidesteps, and Castle turns to follow, watching her step up onto the platform sidewalk. The setting sun casts orange glow across her face, her hair golden, her cheeks pink.

"You're starting to burn," he says, winces as he hears it come out of his mouth.

She half turns, studying him as he steps up behind her. Cuba is open to Americans now, but they've been careful, passports close, no showing off their money. Still, Kate looks amazing, fantastic really, sun-kissed and relaxed, wearing those white shorts that show off her long legs, a billowing top that makes the angles of her collarbones so exquisite.

Covers the scars. He shouldn't have led with _you're starting to burn_. "You look beautiful," he murmurs, sliding his fingers up the back of her arm.

She lifts an eyebrow, her sunglasses pushed back on her head, hair curling around her ears. "Mm."

"I should've started there," he says. "Or perhaps a line?"

"A line?" She half steps away from him, drawing him after her so that they're out of the tourists' way.

"A line like _I could rub lotion on you. I have soft hands._ "

"You've used that one before," she smiles.

"You remember my _lines_?" He gives an exaggerated gasp, just for the heck of it, and leans against the wood post that holds up the porch. The shop has more of the same - turtles and local art and Cuban cigars - but they're not here for novelty, just to have something else to do.

After everything, they're just trying to be lost in the world.

"Some things stick," she says, shrugging with one shoulder. "And no, you're not rubbing lotion on me."

He pouts, teases the opening of her bag. "But I know you have sunscreen in there, come on."

"No," she says, shifting the bag away. "Lunch. I'm starving. Reading in the sun all morning has me ravenous."

She's cute, feisty and narrowing her eyes at him. He can't help brushing the backs of his fingers against the silky fall of her billowing shirt.

She catches his fingers, squeezes too hard. "There's nothing _there_ ," she grumbles, but her lips are twitching.

"Something there alright," he insists. "Even if you're not showing."

Kate rolls her eyes, but she's just so - luminous. "Come on, Romeo, the restaurant's down this way."

"Romeo never had any hot sunblock action."

"Neither will you if you don't feed us."

 _Us._

Bubbles fizzle in his guts, but he takes her hand once more, stops meandering, starts walking with purpose.

Her hip bumps his, chin tilting towards him. Another smile, cheeks and forehead red. "Later, big guy," she murmurs. "You can rub me down to your heart's content."

 **x2x15x**


	16. The Mistress Always Spanks Twice

**The Mistress Always Spanks Twice**

 **xx2x16xx**

"Spill it."

Rick Castle startles hard when she confronts him outside Irina's House of Pain. He tries to sidestep, chuckling a little (does he sound as nervous as he feels?) and waves her off. "Spill what? There's nothing to spill."

She scoffs. "I have _never_ seen you so nervous."

"It was an act," he bluffs. (Did his voice just squeak?) "For the role. Disobedient sub."

"Your voice just squeaked. It wasn't an act."

"We were playing, you know, you're my mistress, I'm your-" His windpipe closes up, and he gives a weak laugh, clearing his throat. He's not her anything. "All in good fun. It worked." He sets off down Dungeon Alley, almost hoping she won't follow.

But of course she does. It's her car. It's her case. She doesn't run to catch up but she keeps him waiting at the passenger door, studying him with an intensity and understanding that makes the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

She hits the door locks and he lets out a breath, ducks down into the creaky, uncomfortable seat. He slams the door shut even as she's just getting in behind the wheel.

She starts the car, and he thinks he might have dodged a bullet on this one.

"For all your talk," she says, trailing off, not finishing that statement. She clucks, shakes her head.

He knows better this time. He's seen her in interrogation; she gets perps to talk in just this manner, insinuating things, making them finish the sentence. He's not cracking. He won't.

"You're all bluff and bluster, aren't you? That sexual prowess you proclaim." She shakes her head. "Lady Irina scares the shit out of you."

He gasps. "You don't have to resort to _cursing_ at me."

She presses her lips together but there's something of amusement in it. She shakes her head, makes the turn out of Dungeon Alley, and his shoulders ease.

"Lady Irina makes me tense," he says finally. A lot less crude than what wanted out of his mouth. He's proud he managed it. Even if his hands are placed strategically over his lap as if he needs to protect the family jewels.

"Tense," Beckett chuckles. She shoots a look his direction and then laughs. "Seriously? Castle. You looked scared to death."

"No, just..."

"Oh, yeah? How about I turn around and we try it again?"

Whatever goes across his face makes her smirk at first, but then she drops the nasty smile, studies the traffic. "It really scares you," she muses, eyeing him before turning back to the road. "You can't handle it, can you? The idea that someone would have that kind of power over you. Can't sweet talk your way out of handcuffs if you have a ball gag in your mouth."

He grunts, the image of Kate Beckett in black custom leather and the highest heels possible now burning in his brain. In his guts. He's not her _anything._

"It's the _someone_ that scares me," he admits, his jaw working as he stares out of the window. He shifts in the seat. "Couple of bad experiences."

She stops laughing.

He lets out a breath, smooths his palms down his thighs, straightening out the wrinkles in his pants. A shaky confidence is returning the farther they get from Lady Irina's House of Pain.

"You do know, Rick," she says lightly, the _k_ in his name popping in her mouth. "Being a sub can be quite rewarding, when it's right."

"I'm sure you _don't_ know," he shoots back, fishing so hard for her story it's almost ridiculous. He can hear it, he just can't stop it. "Since you've always been the dominatrix in this scenario."

She narrows her eyes. "All I'm saying is. Talk to me again when you have the right person dominating you."

"I already do," he blurts out. "Like I said, you punish me all day."

She snorts, making a turn onto the avenue. His palms are spotted with sweat. That line didn't come out as smoothly as he meant it to. It sounded a little too real.

But then she gives him a swift, _hot_ look and says, "Well. When I'm the one punishing you all _night_ \- then we'll talk."

 **xx2x16xx**


	17. Tick, Tick, Tick

**Tick, Tick, Tick...**

 **xx2x17xx**

Castle rubs his hands down his face and stares up at her ceiling. Every little noise is making him jump, and he's gone to the front door and peered out of the peephole a hundred times. He hasn't the courage to _open_ the door, but-

He's here at least.

He doesn't feel much like a protector. He feels like an overly friendly watchdog.

Castle lifts himself upright and off the couch, getting his feet under him and wandering her living room as quietly as possible. He bets she's fast asleep, not worried at all, and it's not because he's out here 'protecting' her. She really is fearless.

Impressive.

He's not fearless. The idea that this killer has fixated on her... because of him... he can't settle, can't calm down. His nerves are shot and he finished off the bottle of wine himself and still he's jittery, pacing the floor. He wishes she hadn't sent away those cops sitting on her place. He wishes he were better prepared for this, that he hasn't been a metrosexual, soft-handed playboy for so long now that he wouldn't have the first clue how to protect either of them.

Maybe he should go to some self-defense classes. Maybe it's too late. Until then...

He scans her book shelves, dusting a finger over their spines. Russian literature, graphic novels, Kafka and Camus, the kinds of books that have dark themes, absurdist and bleak. A book of poetry that seems incongruous until he pulls it out and flips through the pages, reads lines about decay and racism and bitter irony.

He sighs, drops his hand, turns in a slow circle to scan the apartment. Comfortably appointed, the furniture nothing grand but lived in, solid. The little touches of her personality are alluring - the figurine on the shelf, the framed photo beside the couch, the industrial lamp, the pressed flower behind glass hanging on the wall. The choices she's made speak of collection rather than particular choice, growth over time rather than all at once.

Personal history. Even family - he catches photos of her mother, her father, the three of them, cousins or something over there, a trip overseas here, landscapes from Moscow, Montana, the Brooklyn Bridge. A painting of a horse, a heavy silver ring one a silver plate, a spider plant in a ceramic pot, a replica of the blue Egyptian hippo from the Louvre.

He slinks into the kitchen and notes the orange rooster on a back shelf, the turquoise plate displayed at the stainless steel counter, the white dishes stacked neatly at the top. Her stove is old, gas powered, but clean - from disuse, it seems. No dust, though.

The refrigerator is vintage, small because of that, but he sees why it appeals to her - and that's something. He opens the door and cold air drifts across his lower body. She has a veritable takeout shrine in there, stacks of old Chinese, white styrofoam containers, even a pizza box. A couple of bottled waters, three yogurts, a half eaten wheel of cheese.

He closes the door, opens the icebox on top. Fruit popsicles and freezer burnt chicken. He reaches in, presses down the plastic, curls his lip. Expired last year.

Beckett is not much for culinary wizardry then.

He schlepps back to the living room, glancing at the front door on his way, and he sinks back into the couch. He likes this couch; it's actually comfortable, even for him, tall and wide as he is.

He lies down, tries to close his eyes, sleep.

The many little details of her apartment come to life behind his eyelids, the accessories and decor that are more than just items picked from a designer's catalog, carefully selected for taste and breeding and neutral tones. His loft, his Hamptons home - neither place is entirely his own creation; his places haven't built up around him like coral accreting in the ocean.

But his office. _There_ is a place he can truly claim as original, all his own. He didn't decorate his office, he's _lived_ it, gathering furniture as he's had funds, pieces that appealed, toys and gadgets and funky things. A crystal skull. An elephant's foot filled with rapiers and foils. The framed spiral staircase. When he bought the loft, he didn't have all the things he has now, but that office was almost complete, perfect.

 _Real._

That's what Beckett has here, what she's surrounded herself with in her personal, intimate space. And he can see something of who she truly is.

No wonder she didn't want to let him in.

But she did. And she's letting him stay.

Even if he can't protect her, he's at least one dead body that psycho has to get through before making it to Kate.

 **xx2x17xx**


	18. Boom!

**Boom!**

 **x2x18x**

Beckett pushes open the door with her spare key, trying to be quiet in the night-time darkness of Castle's loft. She steps inside with light feet, the bag from the dry cleaners rustling over her shoulder. Turns to shut the door.

"You're getting in late."

She startles, the door slams. Beckett spins around, finds Castle standing in the open doorway of his office, relaxed against the wood, hands in his pockets.

Hair mussed like it is when he's just woken up. (And now she knows that. A week's worth of knowing.)

An eyebrow goes up, he lifts from the doorframe and walks barefoot towards her. His dark sweater has a slight v-neck, just enough to accentuate his chest, his very broad shoulders.

Beckett swallows, makes her movements slow to defeat the triple-thud of her heartbeat. She was only startled, that's all. It's nothing else.

She locks the door, shifts the dry cleaning over her shoulder, palms her key. "Trying to look for apartments, picked up the first of my dry cleaning."

He clucks his tongue and takes the last few steps to meet her, though he's not as close as she feared. "Told you I'd pay for that."

"The apartment or my dry cleaning?" she says wryly.

"Either, both." A clever grin snaps across his face. "Dry cleaning specifically, but if you'll let me buy you a-"

"No, Castle," she says, cutting him off. "To both."

"You do know you've just issued a challenge."

She rolls her eyes, but he reaches out and plucks the dry cleaning from her finger, reads the label on the paper covered hangers. Of course he did, of course he will.

At least he's not taking the apartment thing seriously.

"Let me at least help with the apartment search," he says, walking towards the kitchen with her dry cleaning.

Forcing her to follow.

And she does. Of course she does. Because she knows he's heading for the wine fridge and another excellent year, because winding down with Castle each night has become addictive (more than the wine, if she's being honest).

He lays her plastic-shrouded dry cleaning over the bar, does indeed retrieve the wine from last night, two of the tumblers shaped like fat rose buds.

She likes sipping his wine in those non-stemmed glasses, as if it's more illicitly luxurious, a dream she has no hope of recreating.

"What's your budget?" he says, pouring the deep red. "Not to be nosy, but I can at least narrow it down for you. I'm very good at research."

"No, Castle, that's not necessary."

"You barely have time," he goes on, as if she hasn't spoken. "You're working late, you rarely even have your weekends free, and you're chomping at the bit to get out of here."

She lifts her eyes in automatic denial, but he's smiling, and her protest dies on her lips. "It's not you," she sighs. "I just-"

"You're an adult. And single. We cramp your style, Detective." He's still smiling kindly.

But she thinks he's wounded anyway. He's the one who said it, but it hurts him nonetheless. "You don't, I promise. I have no style." She smiles and his loses its intensity but gains some genuineness. "I just hate to be - unsettled."

His smile softens; he understands. He pushes the wine glass towards her, corks the bottle as he takes his own. She heads for the living room and the couch herself, without needing him to prompt or offer, and she knows that goes a long way to smoothing his sadness.

He'll miss her when she gets her own place. She's not sure why she's surprised.

She settles into one corner, he settles in the other. They sip wine slowly, both of them savoring the flavor and the silence.

"Alright," she says finally. "You can help narrow it down for me."

He sits up straighter, eagerness on his face. "You won't regret it." He sets down his glass. "Okay, let's see what your criteria are. Location, space, price - what are your must-haves and what-"

"Calm down, Castle." She shakes her head, sips the wine just to have it in her mouth, make her think about her words. He's still grinning like a kid at the idea of helping her, but she deliberates, watching him.

He leans forward, waiting on her word.

"I'll have to take a few days off when we close this case, go through all the available for-rents. Real estate is impossible in this city, and I'm-" She lets out a breath, finally smiles back at him. "I'm pretty picky."

"Of course you are, you should be. It's supposed to be your home."

"You know what will really help? Just have them all geographically lumped together, so I can knock 'em out, one after another. You up for that?"

"I am. Count me in." He's beaming, cradling his wine now in one large hand, the other clasped at his knee, but so much energy in his body that he can barely sit still. Though it looks like he's trying.

She knows what it will mean, letting him help, that he'll hire a realtor and use a professional and probably expensive service to make it as painless and fast as possible. He won't do it himself, that's not his style; he'll hire it out because that's all he knows, that's his m.o., that's how the very rich live.

And because she'll only have five days, at the most, to get this accomplished, she'll have to take it, just this once, like a gift.

It's not like she wants him dogging her heels as she climbs sixth-floor walk-ups into crowded rooms that smell like Chinese food. It's not like she _wants_ him getting his hands dirty, showing up, making comments about her affordable choices, bullying her into going over her budget. She doesn't want that.

"Thanks, Castle," she says finally, and lifts her glass in salute. "I appreciate the help."

Because in essence, she'll still be doing it alone.

 **x2x18x**

 **A/N: Don't miss out on at:castleficstream tonight, July 29th, starting soon - 6 pm EST. I'll co-host the opening ceremonies with griever11 and we'll get this started right. Check twitter for the schedule.**


	19. Wrapped Up in Death

**Wrapped Up in Death**

 **x2x19x**

Kate Beckett presses her forehead to the cool wood of the closet door, breathes slowly to keep her stomach from rising.

Her palms are damp and leave rings on the chrome finishes. She opens the door a little blind, and she steps inside his walk-in closet, telling herself it's okay.

It's okay.

 _It smells like him._

Kate swallows down a choking sensation and grabs for one of the shelves, keeps herself upright through sheer force of will. And then she bends down and opens the bottom drawer of his organizational unit, sinks slowly to her knees - all under her own control, her decision to descend.

This will _not_ break her.

The bottom drawer is stuffed with items, but she only needs one little travel bag. She doesn't plan to stop much, she'll probably pull the car over onto the side of the road to catch sleep when it becomes absolutely necessary. She'll scour every inch of the coastline for him if that's what it takes.

A duffle bag is lying under a couple of well-worn sweatshirts and she pulls it out, has to yank when a strap gets caught on a box. The lid comes off with the force of her tugging, and she grabs for it, stumbling back hard on her ass.

The lid is labeled in black marker _Porn._

"Do what?" she breathes, something fluttering in her chest.

Kate pulls out the sweatshirts until she uncovers the box below, but instead of magazines or questionable DVDs, there are - photographs? Regular family photos, nothing pornographic at all.

Her hands tremble when she reaches in. She carefully pulls the box out, lays it in her lap with her hair falling around her face, obscuring her view. And tears. There are always tears now. She smears her fingers under her eyes, smells dust from the box, old paper and ink.

Kate sinks back to sit cross-legged, cradling the box in her lap, and she pulls the lid towards her. Taped to the underside is a letter, her name on the thick stationary.

 _Beckett_

And even that makes her heart _hurt_ , an aching so deep she can barely breathe. But she carefully peels back the tape and unfolds the letter.

 _Did you think I'd really leave my porn in the closet for anyone to find? But thank you, Detective, for keeping your promise. It means a lot to me that you would be willing to look out for my daughter, no matter how disagreeable the chore. -Rick_

Kate presses her fingers to her lips, flips the letter over, not sure why he has this, where it came from - when. But on the back, an additional few lines.

 _In case you find this, being the nosy girlfriend you are, wanted you to see (hard evidence, Kate) that it meant something to me even then, as it means the world to me now. All my love (and all my porn as well-)_

This one unsigned. And in the box - a hundred photographs. A hundred simple, beautiful images. Photographs of _her_. Some she remembers him taking on his phone when he first bought a new iPhone and was showing off - there are her fingers trying to block the camera, and there's her desk in the background.

All through their years, so many images. Just her. A few a little more salacious than the others, but nothing of mature content.

"Your porn collection is sad," she murmurs to the air.

To nothing.

He's not here.

But she is damn sure she will find him.

 **x2x19x**


	20. The Late Shaft

**The Late Shaft**

 **x2x20x**

 _Have you lost all sense of human decency and self-respect?_

 **x2x20x**

They were so _cute_ on television together, leaning in, swapping stories. Practically swapping breath. Rick Castle and Ellie Monroe. Close enough to smile into each other's eyes, all star-crossed lovers. Weren't they so _cute_?

Beckett clenches her jaw. Pushes past the sarcasm.

She won't think about that stupid interview again. She's home finally - _home_ \- her own place, her apartment, and it's the refuge she hoped for. She can breathe here, she can forget the rest of them, she can close her eyes and ignore the questions about her mother's murder that still haunt her.

Besides, Rick Castle and Ellie Monroe? One is a rising star and the other is a bestselling novelist. Not exactly moving in the same social spheres, not quite the same world-

Well.

They were both on Late Night, weren't they?

Beckett angrily shoves herself off the couch, heading for her kitchen. Her new kitchen, with its industrial finishes, its clean porcelain sink, the lovely touches she's added over the last few weeks.

She's home.

The rest will come together.

There's no reason to feel like this. It's all _hers._

 **x2x20x**

She realizes it now.

She was just beginning to lean in.

No, not _falling_ for him. Just - leaning in.

She's been leaning in for a few months now, (for a _year_ ), doing some kind of dance with him, and now this?

And here he comes. He's trying very hard to appear subdued, that he didn't just get laid. That's fine. It's fine. She can be a big girl.

Beckett folds her hands in her lap and rethinks that posture, instead opens a file and studies the blank lines of the form. Rick Castle.

There is nothing she cannot overcome. This is only temporary. This isn't the rest of her life.

He sits down in the chair beside her desk and she gives him a studying glance.

He looks happy.

Well that's kind of devastating.

She swallows and smooths her fingers over the page in front of her, still saying nothing.

He looks happier than she's seen him since her apartment blew up.

Maybe he needed... something that wasn't about police work.

Something that wasn't _her_.

Dragging him down.

 **x2x20x**

Alexis.

He's going home to Alexis. That's all.

Beckett flushes, cheeks pink, looks away from him.

He's gathering to leave. She wants to say something, wants to take back her righteous indignation of only thirty seconds ago. _Self-respect._ Her own keeps her mouth shut.

But as he goes, she realizes she's not leaning after him any longer.

 **x2x20x**


	21. Den of Thieves

**Den of Thieves**

AU

 **x2x21x**

 _x_

 _No, no, no flag on the play._

 _x_

It rises up, strangling him from the inside.

How he wants her. He _wants_ her. He's never not wanted her but now that Demming is slumming around like a mangy dog begging for scraps, Castle _wants_ her. Wants a flag on the play and foul and harm and all of that, whatever the damn sports metaphors are that will make Beckett walk right past Demming and over to him instead.

It's not even _lust_. It's purer than that. Darker.

He wants to step between them and assert his claim. She's _his_ detective, his muse. He's written an entire book about her, for her, because of her. He's writing the second; it's nearly finished, and it's all because of her. Why doesn't that count for something?

It ought to count for something.

He will make it count for something.

Demming has no claim, and just because he asked, politely, in that way that boys ask when they're pretending to be grown-ups, doesn't mean Castle can't change his mind and step in.

He scrambles to his feet and follows Demming out of the conference room, moving fast to pull ahead of him. He takes a look back, sees the robbery detective's surprise. Castle shakes his head. _Snooze, you loose._ But he doesn't say it; he only thinks it, and it's mostly directed at himself.

He's been too long asleep.

Now is his moment because there are no other moments left for them.

From behind him, in his dust, Demming hisses, "Hey. Castle. What the hell, man?"

Rick approaches Beckett at the white board, the marker tapping against her bottom lip. Her eyes on the board, making connections. He should ask her out. He should kiss her - take that marker and snatch it out of her fingers and press his mouth to hers until-

"Beck-" His throat works. "Kate?"

From behind him, Demming tries to get to her first. But Castle steps in front of him, fills her vision when she turns her head.

"Go out with me," he says, the words more intense than he meant them to be. Demming gives a growl and paces away, stalking, and Beckett's eyes flick between them, back and forth.

Castle doesn't falter, doesn't look behind him, doesn't pretend this has anything to do with Demming. Only that Demming has thrown a harsh light on his reality, the secrets he knew all along.

"Dinner. Someplace nice. You deserve it." He steps into her personal space. "We deserve it."

"Castle," she says slowly. Takes a step back.

He catches her hand, just her fingers, rubbing across her knuckles. The movement is out of sight of the rest of the bullpen and he sees her eyes scan the room, her shoulders coming up.

"What are you doing?" she says fiercely.

"I'm asking you out."

She opens her mouth to negate him, but he squeezes her hand.

"I'm asking you out because it's been over a year now, and I am more impressed with you every day."

Her mouth drops open.

"And I think you know that." He draws his thumb across her knuckles and lets her hand go. Giving her the chance to choose. To save face if that's what she needs.

Beckett turns her head, giving him her profile, her eyes on the murder board. He can sense his moment slipping, but she takes in a deep breath.

"After our case," she murmurs. Her cheeks are pink, and she slides her eyes back to his. Is she smiling? He can't quite tell; he knows he's staring at her, and now she ducks her head. "Castle. _After._ "

He grins. "Okay. Yes, after the case is closed." He doesn't know what to do now, what to think, but she looks sweet, and fidgeting before the board, and he should probably sit down and stop looming over her.

So he sits down. In his chair. By her desk.

She shoots him a dark look, mostly the usual scowl, but he detects a note of curiosity in the twitch of her lips.

 **x2x21x**


	22. Food To Die For

**Food To Die For**

 **x2x22x**

 _If I couldn't trust him as a man, how could he be a father? Eventually you know he's gonna let you down, why risk it?_

 **x2x22x**

She's been thinking a lot lately. About babies.

She doesn't mean to be; she doesn't even _want_ a baby. But stupid Madison. Stupid Madison and her wonderful restaurant.

Babies are still on her brain as she steps onto the subway. It's not just Madison, really, it's also the pregnant fiancee who is now without support at all. She's facing a baby all alone, a future without its father, all because of... what?

You never really know people. It's a crap shoot. Beckett thought she knew with Will Sorenson and he left her for a promotion without so much as a conversation. It's why she doesn't do the relationship thing; there's no point setting herself up for hard times, lonely times, for that struggle to get back on track with her life after it's been derailed by some guy. It's why she ignored Castle in the beginning, and why it was so easy to believe Demming was crooked.

Well, but he wasn't their bad cop. Demming is surprisingly easy to read. What you see is what you get. He has a thought, he voices it at the appropriate time. She's faster than he is when it comes to the police work, but that's nothing new. She doesn't need sharpening in her professional life... just her personal.

Demming has been soft-spoken but persistent, asking for dates, for her time, for a conversation, for a look. When he kisses her, she thinks, _hmm_ (rather than _mmm)_. But interest is enough for her for right now. It's really all she wants out of dating.

It's not even really a relationship.

She definitely doesn't want more. She likes stealing a kiss from him before she heads into the bullpen; she likes have a secret smile she has to smother from her lips when she meets Castle at her desk. She-

Oh.

Is it all because of Castle?

No.

(Is it?)

After Ellie Monroe...

Beckett twists the oversized ring on her finger, shifting in the seat. The dark tunnel outside the window is hypnotizing, a blur in her vision. The lights flicker in the subway car and come back dimly; she traces a finger over the graffiti etched into the plastic frame.

Demming is sweet. She would never have brought him to Madison's restaurant though; that would have been like blood in the water. She could've brought Castle, easily, but she's trying to set personal and professional boundaries. There's something about having a girlfriend to gossip with that makes her feel part of the world once more, part of real life.

She thinks she's been shutting down the world for a while now. Shutting off. Ever since she was nineteen and facing a police detective, she's built this... wall. Just as Rick Castle wrote it for Nikki Heat, Beckett has this wall around her being, keeping herself from normal, the regular, the usual life. It's been quiet, and solitary, and controlled. And she's excelled at her job because of it.

But she's finding herself stretching out of those bounds. Looking for things. Seeking novelty. Wanting...

No. She still doesn't want babies. They're not part of her plan. But who's to say that some fun with Tom Demming can't fit in and around her plan?

She really has Rick Castle to thank for it. It's kind of pathetic: his books kept her afloat when she was drowning in her mother's murder, and now his tagging along is pushing her to want more from her private life.

Maybe it started with him, but the first crack was shooting Dick Coonan inside the Twelfth Precinct. And it's widening.

She doesn't know where this is going, but she's finally willing to take the ride.

 **x2x22x**


	23. Overkill

**Overkill**

 **x2x23x**

 _In life you have to accept the fact that not everything is gonna go your way._

 **x2x23x**

Feels like his guts have been kicked in.

Rick Castle takes the long way home, barely sees the streets or people, the spring sunshine. He winds up on the subway, standing in a packed car, the wash of body odor strong, the sway of cramped and sweating commuters. He grips a pole and stares into the blur of the tunnel outside the windows, unable to distinguish which is real - the subway car with these mute and drooping people, or the darkness and rush just beyond him.

She's kissing Tom Demming.

She's smiling and ducking her head to absorb every second of her pleasure in kissing him.

Those eyes that used to look at him, in the early days, with such satisfaction now only hold regard, faint and perhaps reluctant friendship. No spark but what he makes her fight him for, what he pushes her to.

When did healthy attraction and chemistry turn into conflict and eye-rolling? When did _I want you_ become _thanks for being here, see you later_?

He's missed his chance. He thought he was playing the long game, and Tom Demming strode right into the bullpen and blatantly asked her out - and she said yes.

She keeps saying yes when all Rick has ever gotten is _no_.

All that's gone on with them, the life-saving, the murder-solving, the looks and heartfelt words and true confessions, the revealing pieces of themselves layer by layer, and her head turns at a guy with only a little game and a shiny badge.

 _He_ used to turn her head. She used to be a little starstruck, and it used to show in her eyes and her flustered heat and her scowls.

Now she's just used to him.

He doesn't like to lose, but he's come to see that he never had the winning hand to start with. Why did he bet the house when his cards have always been so poor?

Just who he is. Risking it (because it's so easy to risk when it hardly matters, when his true self remains masked, when the persona feels the rejection and smiles anyway). And it damn sure feels shitty to be standing in a cramped subway car moving further and further away from what he wants - what _he_ wants, Rick alone, not the playboy or charmer or best-selling novelist, just _him_ at his most raw.

He did more than tip his hand; he spread his cards on the table and bared his neck.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he slides two fingers inside, withdraws it. Gina again. He's late on the manuscript final. He doesn't care; feels pointless now to care. He needs a whiskey and soda and about forty-eight hours of sipping through the darkness not quite sober.

He needs Beckett to look at him again.

But she won't.

He's not what she wants.

He's going to have to figure out if this is enough for him, if watching from his front row seat won't mess him up in some deep way (she's too deep, gotten under his skin, somehow grafted onto him), or if he might be able to slide by, reassert his usual cheer and suave, be who he's always managed to be. He jokes because it's easier, he plays the fool because at least they'll laugh.

(He can still make her laugh.)

(He hopes that's enough for him.)

He really doesn't want to leave. He's found - brotherhood at the Twelfth. People who like having him around, and not because he's rich and famous, not because he's smooth and charming, but because he _helps._ He has purpose.

Rick Castle is a selfish man and he does not want to give that up.

He hopes it's enough.

Because watching her with Tom Demming is eating out his heart.

 **x2x23x**


	24. A Deadly Game

**A Deadly Game**

 **x2x24x**

Rick Castle takes a last look over his shoulder, and the down-turned tilt of her chin makes his stomach flutter. But Gina is guiding him towards the elevator, pressing the call button with one perfectly manicured nail, and it worked once with her, it does work when he actually tries, and he can be that guy.

He can prove to Beckett-

No, no. That's not why he's doing this. He's proving to himself he can be that guy, the one who tries, the one built to be in someone's forever.

He came closest with his second wife and he's tired of the playboy circuit, tired of signing chests with a Sharpie and having his daughter embarrassed with him. Just tired.

He wants to stop, and Gina is a good place to rest.

(Rest? Gina? Not hardly. But at least it won't be boring with Gina. At least he knows where his pitfalls lie, what tricks she can get up to, and he's more mature now, he's had the benefit of Beckett's massive expectations to fall short of - but in falling short, he's climbed much higher than he ever thought himself possible.)

As they step onto the elevator, he's relieved. He is. He'll have some distance this summer, be able to put this all in perspective. He feels a part of things at the Twelfth and he doesn't want to have to give that up, the camaraderie, being _partners_ with the boys and Beckett ( _Beckett_ , his lungs cramp as the elevator doors open) and it can be smoothed over, it can all be smoothed over.

Time and distance, and maybe by the time he's back in town for Labor Day, maybe the thought of walking into the bullpen and seeing her kiss Tom Demming won't be like a fist in his solar plexus. Maybe he'll be able to smile at her hesitant _don't make this awkward_ face and actually mean it. Maybe-

"Penny for your thoughts, Rick?"

He turns that work-in-progress smile down to Gina. "Only looking forward to the summer. I've been needing some time off."

"Time off?" she scoffs. "You're going to be writing, Rick Castle. Don't think our reconnection here will distract me one little bit."

"Wouldn't dare dream of it," he smiles, smiles, smiles, hurting his cheeks with it.

He hopes it soon becomes second nature. He doesn't know if he can keep doing this all summer.

But he wants to.

He _wants_ to want to.

And that has to count for something.

 **x2x24x**


End file.
